


Disconnected

by 6mgs7



Series: Disconnected [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: All the words, Halloween, I'll Edit When I'm Dead, M/M, TRIGGER talk of suicide, Taylor Fucking Swift, Undead, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/6mgs7/pseuds/6mgs7
Summary: Mickey shares an out of body experience with Ian on Halloween night.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich
Series: Disconnected [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740256
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Disconnected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fucking Endgamers Always](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fucking+Endgamers+Always).



> written 11-03-2018; originally published in the EG Gallavich Halloween Challenge.  
> Part 1: Disconnected
> 
> Poorly Edited Work: All errors are my own, and I'm sure there are plenty.

Four things were running through Mickey’s head – the police sirens, which were thankfully fading in the other direction, the pounding of his heart which seemed louder than the pounding of his feet on the pavement, some stupid Taylor fucking Swift song he didn't know the words to, and the sound of his old man screaming _“shoot the fucker in his god damn face!”_

Mickey hadn’t though – shot the fucker in the face, that is. As a matter of fact he didn't do anything at all when the cops showed up. They tackled Terry to the ground and shoving his face into the dirt when they cuffed him, but none of them seemed to notice Mickey. He stood across the street among the growing crowd of onlookers, wearing that stupid Joker mask, blending in well with the other trick or treaters.

The cops dragged Terry kicking and cursing to the squad car, but when he caught sight of his son standing there, doing nothing, Terry turned his anger towards him.

_"You faggot little motherfucker! I'll kill you, you hear me? I'll fucking kill you!"_

Mickey didn't doubt it for a second. He pulled a little tighter on the backpack strapped over his arm. Terry's screams were muffled within the car, but Mickey wasn't taking any chances. The cops were starting to talk to witnesses now, and it was better if he disappeared before anyone pointed him out. 

He stepped back into the crowd, making sure no one was looking at him, then he took off - walking at first, then jogging. Before he knew it, he was running as fast as he could to get as far from Terry and the cops, and everything in his shitty life that he had desperately tried to escape for so many years. Only this time he wasn’t running _away_ … he was running _to._ He just wasn’t sure what he was running to _yet_ , but it felt a lot like freedom.

When his legs finally quit on him, he ducked into a burned out shell of a building, just as the snow started blowing. He'd been there before, sometimes to get high, now and then to get fucked, and too often to hide when his dad had beat him so bad he didn't dare go home. Even though the place was covered in discarded trash and needles and bottles, he seldom ever ran into anyone else, and there was little chance of anyone being there on such a cold night.

Mickey pulled off the mask that was hanging around the back of his neck and shoved it into his front pocket, then took the broken steps two at a time to the top floor. Most of the walls and windows were gone there, but he'd be able to see if anyone came lurking around. He tossed the backpack to the ground as his back hit the wall and he slid to the icy cement floor to finally catch his breath. As he began to cool down, the wind whistled through the building, chilling him to the bone. He pulled his hoodie snug around his neck and tucked himself into a ball to stay warm, but it was no use. His teeth were chattering and he was shivering so badly, he knew there was no way he would make it through the night without a fire.

He checked his pockets for his lighter, but came up empty, then grabbed the backpack hoping he'd get lucky and find a joint as well, but stopped short when his hand settled on the plastic bag Terry had given him to hold, telling him, _"Don't fuckin' lose that or I'll cut your balls off, got it?"_ Well, he hadn't lost it, that's for damn sure. He used his teeth to cut through the layers of packing tape, to reveal several bundles of cash along and a few 8 balls.

“Holy fuck…” 

Mickey fanned through of the cash, counting out roughly twenty thousand dollars. A gust of wind whipped several of the bills from his hand and he scurried around to gather them up again, then went back to searching for his lighter. He found a fifth of whiskey that he'd swiped from the kitchen on the way out of the house, tucked into one of the pockets of his bag. He took the lid off and swallowed down a mouthful, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down against the burn.

"Aaaaauggh.” he groaned, then took another drink before setting the bottle aside.

It did little to warm his blood and definitely wouldn’t keep him from freezing to death if he had to spend the night out there, but it took the edge off from the shitty night he was having. The snow was coming down hard now, and with no street lamps or moonlight to help him out, the building was so dark he could barely see ten feet in front of him. He pulled his phone out to use it as a flashlight - 4% battery, fucking perfect. 

The screen dimmed instantly and a beep warned him that it would be minutes before it died completely. Without a minute to spare, he dumped the contents of the backpack onto the floor in front of him - Couple condoms, a baggy with two joints, a full clip with no gun (thanks to his dumb ass brother, Iggy, who dumped it in a drain two days earlier when he thought the cops were after him), a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, and a bunch of other random shit. He felt around the bottom of his bag and finally found his black Zippo lighter wedged in a corner pocket.

He lit it up, revealing the rough middle finger logo he had scratched into it with a hunting knife. His hand shook, making the flame flicker as he lit up one of the joints, then it went out completely. He held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could until he started coughing, then took another drink of whiskey to wet his throat. He went back and forth, smoking and drinking, until everything was nice and fuzzy in his head. He might freeze to death, but he was going to feel fucking great when he went. The thought of that made him laugh, which turned into another coughing fit.

"All right, fuck... think, Milkovich," he said to himself, looking around for anything he could burn to stay warm, but there it we're only broken bottles and cans. He thought about going home, but the cops were no doubt going through every room in his house by that point. The nearest motel was miles away - he'd never make it in the storm, and if he did, there was no guarantee the cops wouldn't be looking for him there either.

He took another hit of the joint before snuffing it out, and started to put everything back in the backpack. When he got to the plastic bag filled with Terry's drug money he chuckled, realizing it was the only flammable thing he had on him. In his intoxicated and frozen state, he seriously considered it, then decided to save it in case things got desperate.

He tucked the money into the backpack then headed back to the ground floor. There was always trash and shit blown into the corners of the building down there that he could burn. As fortune would have it, he found a large cardboard square blown up against the side of the building. It was a little wet and torn, but still good enough to use for a cover against the wind, or to lay on the icy cement floor as a mat. He folded it awkwardly beneath his arm and continued his hunt. Out in the lot he found a beat up metal garbage can, with remnants of burned debris inside. Mickey began filling it with and twigs and any trash he could find lying around, taking only what he could drag back up the stairs. He didn't expect to be there for more than an hour or two; just until he was sure the cops weren't out there looking for him any more. Then he'd find a warmer place to sleep for the night.

He dragged the cardboard and the trashcan back up the stairs, stopping on the 4th floor. It was still high up enough that he could keep vigil over the lot, and most of the exterior walls there were intact giving him a little more shelter from the storm, not to mention it had a roof, which the 7th floor did not. Mickey set the cardboard down in a dark corner where the wind didn't seem to blow as fiercely. He bounced up and down on his toes, rubbing his hand on his arms furiously to try to generate a little heat and was about to huddle down in his make shift camp...but that was when he heard the footsteps.

He jumped against the wall, standing completely still and trying to make out any shapes in the dark. He clenched his teeth down tight to keep them from chattering as he listened, and once more he heard the footsteps, but couldn't tell if they were on the same floor as him or another. He moved along the wall slowly to the stairwell and peeked up, then down, but no one was there.

“Who the fuck's there!?” Mickey yelled, doing his best to sound as threatening as possible. 

The steps stopped. Mickey turned the corner into the stairwell and peeked over the ledge, but there was only black below him.

“I swear to god I’ll put a bullet through your fucking skull.” Mickey warned, knowing damn well the only dangerous thing he had on him was a Zippo lighter.

He stood there in the dark, waiting and shivering, but no other sound came. He started to relax again, chuckling at how ridiculous he was being as he walked back to his little corner, convinced that the combination of stress, weed, and alcohol were just playing tricks on him. No one was there... he hoped... but those footsteps had sounded pretty fucking real.

Mickey pulled the coke he had found inside the money bag and tapped some out on the back of his hand, making sure to keep it shielded from the brisk wind. He snuffed, closing his eyes tight as it shot like a bullet to his brain, then he tapped out a little more for good measure. It hit hard, sending his head back slowly to rest against the wall. For a few glorious minutes, the cops, the snow, and the fire didn't seem so urgent anymore, but soon the chattering in his teeth started up again and pulled him from his stupor.

He opened his bloodshot eyes and got to work, laying the trashcan on its side so that it opened to face him but was shielded from the wind. Next he sat down next to the can and tried to light pieces of dried grass on fire. Each time the flames began to take, but seconds later it would stop burning.

“Motherfucker…” He mumbled, frustrated after several attempts. He grabbed the whiskey and drank, letting it warm him a bit then tried to light the fire again.

“It won’t burn like that.” Someone said quietly from someplace in the dark. Mickey let out a surprised squawk and jumped to his feet, ready for fight or flight, he wasn't sure which.

“Who is that!?”

He pulled the phone from his pocket, but the second he tried to light the screen up so he could see, the battery died and it powered off. This time the steps were there again, only faster now, shuffling closer. Mickey swung his fist aimlessly into the dark, trying to figure out what direction they were come from. When the footsteps stopped again, he stood ready, trying to focus in the dark, but no one was there.

“Where the fuck are you asshole!?”

“Can you hear me?” 

Mickey jumped, turning his head from side to side. It was definitely a man, not very old, but the thing that caught Mickey's attention was the wild curiosity in that question: _Can you hear me?_

“The fuck do you mean, ‘can I hear you?’ Of course, I can fucking hear you! Where the fuck are you?” He held his hands up in front of him, his fingers pointed out, hoping to give the illusion of a holding gun. “I’ll shoot you in your fucking head if you come near me, got it?”

He waited. Nothing came. He jerked left to right, not sure what direction to turn. The drugs and alcohol were buzzing through him now making him hyper paranoid to every little sound. His eyes dilated in the dark and his heart raced as he tried to pinpoint the intruder, his fake finger gun pointed straight out in front of him.

“That’s not a gun.” The voice whispered, just inches from his left ear. “Those are just your fingers pretending to be a gun.”

Mickey screamed and spun in the direction of a person who wasn’t there, giving up the fake gun and batting his fists into nothingness. He backed backed away from the wall, tripping over the trashcan and falling to the ground.

 _“Fuck!_ ” he cried out, scooting backwards on all fours, his body shaking so much he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or fear. He sat in the dark feeling vulnerable, taking short breaths, then shook his head violently, trying to clear his foggy brain.

"It's not real! It's not fucking real!" He said, trying to convince himself he was suffering hallucinations from whatever fucked up shit Terry had cut into the coke. Mickey knew better than to fuck with Terry's stash – it was never what it seemed… it was usually better.

“You can hear me.” This time it wasn’t a question, but a surprising realization. “Holy shit!”

“Ok… ok… just… hold on a fucking minute, ok… just think. This isn’t real. None of this is real. That shit was just... fucking tainted or something. It’s not real… get a fucking grip, bitch…”

“Do you always talk to yourself or are you just doing it because I’m freaking you out?” They asked, amused at Mickey's breakdown.

 _“Motherfucker!”_ Mickey yelled, shaking his head then pounding the palms of his hands into his forehead.

“I’m Ian, by the way," he said calmly. In the dark, Ian slid his back down along the wall, exactly where Mickey had been sitting before, and began examining the contents of the trashcan. “If you light this on trashcan on fire sideways the way you have it, you’re gonna smoke yourself out. You'll probably start your cardboard on fire, too. You have to put a chimney on the top of this or all that smoke will just come right back at you. You got anything we can use to knock a hole in the can?”

Mickey was on his feet, slowly walking back to the corner in the direction of Ian's voice. He crouched down on all fours and leaned in towards the wall, his heart racing, his nerves tittering inside of his skin, but his curiosity getting the better of him. If this was a hallucination, it was a damn helpful one. There was no way he would have thought to put a chimney in the top of that can for an exhaust. He stared into the dark, moving his face closer and closer to the wall, but nothing was there.

Ian moved his head back further and further with every inch Mickey moved toward him, until his head hit the wall behind him. He could smell the whiskey on Mickey’s warm breath brush his own lips. Another half inch and he was sure to taste it as well – if that was something he was still capable of doing.

“Uhm… unless you’re looking to consummate this relationship, you might wanna back up a bit.” Ian said. 

Mickey jumped back at lightning speed, falling onto his butt again, his eyes wide. He realized he had practically been lip to lip with the person – or _whatever_ – because Mickey hadn’t only heard him that time. He’d felt him too! Ian’s breath had fallen warm on Mickey’s lips when he spoke.

“Wh-what the fuck are you … you some kind of ghost or something?” He stuttered out, but even the idea of a real fucking ghost on Halloween, in a spooky ass abandoned building seemed just a little too far fetched for him. He let out high pitched cackle in the darkness that came out sounding about as crazy as he was feeling.

The answer to his question was a very hesitant and somewhat sad, “I’m… … not sure.” Ian reached forward into the trash can to rearrange its contents so that they would burn more easily, but his hand passed right through them. “I think I am.” He looked at Mickey who was sitting there, half crazed with a fearful, wild grin on his face, then asked, “So... are we gonna get this fire started or what?”

A ghost. 

A fucking real life ghost – only not really alive at all! A motherfucking ghost right there on Halloween night who also wanted to help build a fucking fire. 

Mickey reached for his backpack, tipping out a generous bump of whatever fucking lacy shit Terry had packed in there and sniffed it up his nose again. This time, he chased it down with another drink of the whiskey, because _fuck this shit!_

“You should take it easy with that, you know. Don’t wanna OD out here in the cold. We don’t need both of us ending up dead.”

Mickey took another drink. 

“Yeah... well ... that might not be such a bad fucking way to go, seeings how I already lost my god damn mind." He laughed, then held the bottle out in into the darkness, "You want some?”

The answer was “Yes,” but Ian didn’t bother to reach for it. He knew he couldn’t touch the bottle anyway.

“I can’t. My hand’ll just go right through it.”

Mickey considered it for a minute, then offered, “You want me to try to pour it in your mouth or something then? Do you have a mouth? I can’t fucking see you.” he chuckled crazily again, realizing he was having a conversation with himself, at the very least, or with a ghost, which might be ten fucking times worse.

Ian started laughing along with him. It was pretty entertaining watching Mickey lose his marbles. The sound of both men lit up the empty space and lifted the mood, helping Mickey finally relax a bit. His paranoid laughter became more amicable, because why not? They could be crazy together, Mickey decided.

“Of course I have a mouth, how do you think I’m talking to you? But that might still be a bad idea, unless you want to be sitting on a whiskey soaked cardboard tonight. It’ll go right through me.”

Mickey stared at the tattered cardboard, then waved his hand out in front of him where he thought Ian must be sitting. He moved closer to take a seat.

“Move the fuck over.” He said. He couldn’t see Ian, but he was almost sure he could feel him. “Move over, asshole. Give me some fucking space here.”

Ian smiled, and scooted an inch to the right, staying close enough to feel the warmth of Mickey’s body brush his side every now and then. 

Mickey was shivering again, “So, about this fire – you a fuckin’ boy scout or something?" He leaned forward and started moving the contents of the can around without purpose. "How do I do this?”

“No, survival training, actually, for ROTC.”

Mickey laughed at the irony, “ _Survival training,_ huh? How’s that working out for you?”

“Not so well, I guess.” Ian laughed. 

He spent the next few minutes trying to explain the importance of creating an air vent, while Mickey argued the fire would burn fine without one. In the end, and after several failed attempts to light the fire, Mickey went to find a chunk of broken cement to pound a hole into the rusty bottom of the trash can, telling Ian he was only doing it to shut him the fuck up. The sound echoed through the building, but Mickey wasn't concern with anyone hearing him. There were no houses around for blocks, and no one was likely to come nosing around the old building in the storm. Once there was hole large enough for the air to flow, Ian instructed him on how to rearrange the contents of the bin so that they would burn most easily.

When it all passed Ian's inspection, Mickey used the Zippo to light the kindling Ian had helped him set up. Within in seconds it began to burn, warming their corner of the room. Mickey leaned closer, letting the heat warm his chilled body. After the shivering in his bones died down, he backed up against the wall again. It was then that he saw it in the glow of the fire – a worn out brown boot with the laces half tied, sitting just to the right of the trash can. He squinted his eyes, then rubbed the palms of his hands across them, then looked again. 

This time, there was a long leg clad in blue jeans attached to the boot. Mickey’s blood ran cold. He followed the hallucination up, up, up, all the way to the torso which was now visible, dressed in a green t-shirt. 

Then there were two semi-translucent arms – one laying casually across Ian’s lap, and one nearly brushing up against Mickey’s own arm. Mickey jerked his arm away quickly, but the rest of his body was rooted firmly in its seat, unable to move. 

Mickey dared to look further, and follow Ian’s neck up they were staring eye to eye, green on blue. Mickey's eyes were huge - two giant disks unblinking and filled with fear. Ian was sure they might pop from Mickey's head at any minute. 

“Jesus fucking Mary and Joseph, I can see you.” Mickey whispered.

“To be honest, you didn’t really hit me as the religious type, Mickey," Ian grinned. A deep sense of gratitude washed in where loneliness had been for what seemed like an eternity. "You can see me," he said.

“What? How did you know my name?”

“We go to school together. Well – sort of. I went to school, you sold drugs. Anyway, I just didn’t take you for the kinda guy who went to church, you know?” Ian waited for Mickey to blink. “Are we gonna do this all night… you know, you freak out while I wait for you to get a grip?”

“The fuck do you expect me to do, asshole?” This time there was a bit more fire in Mickey’s eyes and the usual bluster in his voice. Seeing Ian in an almost solid form seemed to make him less of a threat than before when Mickey couldn't see him coming.

“Nothing… just thought maybe since you could actually see and hear me we could, you know, try to be _normal_." Ian’s voice dropped with sadness. "It’s been a while since anything’s felt normal for me.” 

“There's nothing fucking normal about this."

Mickey took another drink and shook his head again. The truth was, he had convinced himself that Ian was nothing more than a very helpful manifestation of a mental breakdown; a madness brought on by booze and drugs, which was somewhat better than spending a freezing cold night alone. Come morning he would laugh at himself over all the nonsense, and swear it never happened, but sitting there, looking at a very real Ian, Mickey knew none of drugs he had taken could be _that_ good.

He stare at Ian, really taking him in this time – the pale skin, red hair, and those eyes that sparked a little like emeralds in the fire light. As far as ghosts went, things could be worse.

“What’d you say your name was again?” Mickey asked.

“Ian. Gallagher. I was a year behind you in school. I think you knew my brother, Lip. That’s how I remembered you.”

“Lip? Kind of fuckin’ name is ‘Lip?’” Mickey asked, racking his brain for some dumb ass named _Lip._

“It’s actually Phillip, we just call him that for short.”

“Phillip… Phillip… _holy shit_ , you’re one of the Gallagher runts! Fucking Frank’s kid, right? You got that hot older sister, yeah?” Mickey said, finally making the connection. “Fuck, I remember you.”

“You do? Yeah, Frank’s kids,” Ian sad, “Well... sorta…”

“Thought you said you were a Gallagher?” Mickey asked.

“I am, but apparently not of his _lineage_." Ian shrugged, "Lip and I did paternity tests a couple months ago, and as it turns out, Frank isn’t my sperm donor.”

“Well, fuckin’ good for you. He’s a piece of shit.” Mickey lifted the whiskey, “Here, I’ll drink to that for you – that guys nothing but a fucking leech and a bum. You’re lucky his DNA isn’t running through your veins. Fuck, I wish my old man turned out to be the wrong guy.”

“Yeah, I guess. I still have his DNA, though, sorta. Apparently, his brother and my mom hooked up, and … _voila!_ ” He held his hands up as if presenting himself to the world, “Here I am.”

“No shit. The brother, huh?” Mickey shook his head, “South Side bitches...can’t keep their fucking legs closed even if they already got a litter at home.” He caught a side eye glance from Ian, “Sorry man, no offense. Fuck, my old man has kids from three different woman – probably a half dozen more than that, but those lucky bastards got away. If you wanna compare shitty parents, I’d win hands down every time. He’s a mean ass piece of shit... Fucking prick!"

The words spewed from his lips like poison and he washed them away with another drink.

“Fucking bitch got what he deserved tonight though. Serves him right too – I hope they put his ass away for life and throw away the fucking key.” Mickey kicked the trash can, sending sparks into the air. “Fuckin’ bastard used to beat the shit out of me just for shits and grins. He can fucking burn in hell.”

Ian stood up, pulling Mickey from his drunken rant. “Where the fuck you going? Sit your ass down, it’s cold.”

“It’s ok. Can’t really feel the cold. Can’t feel anything really.” 

That was a lie. It was true that he couldn’t feel the heat of the fire or even the cold night air, but he had felt Mickey. He felt the warmth of Mickey's breath and his skin brushing up against his own. Ian wasn’t sure how or why he had felt him, but he had.

“So sit your ass down anyway. What, you got a hot date or something?” Mickey joked, hoping Ian would sit down, but Ian only shuffled from foot to foot, keeping his eyes on glued to the whiskey bottle Mickey was clutching.

“Tell you what, put the bottle away for a while and I’ll sit.”

“The fuck can’t I drink?” Mickey complained.

“When I first saw you, it was full. Now look at it.”

Mickey held it up to the fire light and squinted. There was just half a bottle left.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gallagher. This some kind of intervention now?" He put the lid back on the bottle and pushed it aside. "You know, if I sober up, you might just go _poof!_ and disappear again. You better hope I stay high.”

“I just don’t want you to kill yourself tonight. Being dead isn’t exactly all it’s cracked up to be.”

Mickey leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Seconds later, he felt Ian’s thigh brush solidly against his own as he took a seat again. When Mickey looked over, Ian looked more real than he had before.

“What’s it like… being dead and all?” he asked.

“It's weird. In the beginning I thought I was still alive. I was scared, and I freaked out just like you did tonight. But then all those feelings started to go away along with everything else, and it like i was stuck in bubble. I couldn't feel anything at all. No one else could hear me when I tried talking to them. No one could see me... until you. It’s lonelier than before. I didn’t really think that was possible.” Ian added that last part quietly. “A lot of people come through here, but you’re the first person who’s been able to see me. Why do you think that is?” 

“The fuck should I know. Maybe 'cause my old man doesn’t skimp on good drugs. Maybe it’s some kind of Halloween hocus pocus bullshit or something.” Mickey answered.

“I love that movie.” Ian said, resting his own head against the wall now

“What movie?”

“Hocus Pocus, with the 3 witches. I used to watch it every Halloween with my little brothers and sister.” He grinned at some memory. Suddenly he popped his head up, coming within an inch of Mickey's own face and startling him, then burst out, “Do you really think this is some kind of _magic?_ Like Halloween or Day of the Dead magic shit?”

“I don’t know! How the fuck am I supposed to know that?” Against Ian’s wishes, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and drank again. “ As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a very helpful figment of my imagination.”

“I am not! I was thinking, if it _is_ some kind of Halloween magic, and if you can see me, then maybe other people can too! Maybe I can go see my family, I mean.”

“Is that really something you wanna do? I mean, I’m fucking high as hell and you nearly gave me heart attack – how do you think they’re gonna act if you just show up, knocking on the fucking door and yelling _trick_ _or treat!_ " Mickey laughed at the thought of it. "Fuck, you can’t even knock, so you might as well forget that idea. How long have you been dead anyway? You can’t just show up after five years and say “I’m back bitches!” Doesn’t work that way.”

“It hasn’t been five years! It’s only been about a month! I came here the night of the homecoming game. I was here with a friend of mine, hanging out. We were about to leave when some guys showed up looking to cause trouble. My friend got away, but they caught me on the roof. Beat me up pretty bad, then one of them pushed me off.”

“Are you kidding me!? You fell down 7 stories? Shit, no wonder you died.” Mickey exclaimed. “The fuck did you do to piss them off?”

“Just some fag bashers, I guess.” The words slipped out before Ian could stop himself. Mickey wasn't just any other person sitting next to him - it was a _Milkovich -_ and while Ian didn't have any first hand experience with them, they were notorious for enjoying a little Friday night fag bash. His own brother had warned him about Mickey once in high school when he'd caught Ian staring at him, _"that dude will cut your balls off and shove 'em down your throat for fun, Ian. Knock it off,"_ and Ian had heeded the warning.

Ian waited for a reaction, wondering if Mickey could still beat the shit out of him in his half ghost-like state, but there was none. No disgusting look or hateful words. No kicks or punches. Instead Mickey bit at his lip and nodded. He ran his palms down his thighs then looked away, and Ian wondered if that was going to be the end of their conversation.

“You... gonna hit me?” Ian asked timidly, wanting to get it over with if it was coming.

"What the fuck kind of question is that?” Mickey scratched the back of his neck and scowled at Ian, “I’m not my fucking dad. Relax. ‘Sides, I can’t exactly touch you, remember?”

He tried to backhand Ian's thigh to demonstrate, but his hand went right through him, making Ian chuckle a bit... but Mickey looked at Ian's leg curiously, rubbing the back of his own hand, not sure if he had felt something or not. They sat quietly for a minute before Ian spoke again.

“I think that’s when I died" his voice trembled. He dropped his eyes to his hands in his lap, then swallowed before he spoke again, "I don’t remember hitting the ground, but when I woke up again, I was like this. No bruises or cuts. Nothing hurt. But…“ He held a hand out in front of the fire so they could both see right through it, “I haven’t had a real body ever since.”

“So what... are you stuck here or something?" He was intrigued at the way the flames seemed to lick through Ian's fingertips.

Ian dropped his hand and shrugged.

"Fuck, if I was in your situation, I wouldn't be hanging around this shit hole. I’d be out there causing fucking chaos and shit. Sneak into a few titty bars…" he looked at Ian and smirked, "uh, well, fucking fairy bars or whatever… getting my rocks off. Why are you still here?”

“It's not like I wanna be here. I kept trying leave... I tired to go home, or even to the cops. I thought maybe I could find someone to help me, but every time I started to leave this lot, _BAM!_ everything went black and next thing I knew, I was lying back out there in the dirt again.” Ian kicked his foot at the trashcan, but his boot went right through and into the fire.

A thought hit Mickey like a bolt of lightning. He jumped from his seat and pointed at Ian, “Oh my god! You’re the _Coma Kid_! The kid in the news that everyone’s been talking about! They had fucking gay rallies all around the country because of you!”

“What?”

“Yeah! I remember my old man saying someone should go pull the fucking plug on your ass and finish the job. YOU’RE the guy! You’re not dead, Gallagher! You’re on fucking life support down at County General!” 

Mickey paced the floor and threw his fists up triumphantly at having figured out part of Ian's mystery. Ian jumped up and followed, desperate for more information.

“Wait, I’m alive!? _I’M ALIVE?!_ " He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to absorb what Mickey had told him. "Does my family know I'm alive!? What am I saying... of course they do! I meant, _how do I get back there!_ I need to get back to my body!”

“Yeah, well, you’re shit out of luck there.” Mickey shook his head, out of ideas in that department. “If you can’t leave, the only other option is to bring your body back here, and that’s not gonna happen.”

He walked to one of the window frames and looked down at the ground where Ian had fallen, and let out a long whistle as he imagined the fall down.

“You don’t know who did this to you?” Mickey asked.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’d know them if I saw them again, but they were gone by the time I woke up…like this.”

Mickey turned back toward the fire just in time to run smack into Ian as he approached. For a mere two seconds time froze and stretched out as their bodies passed through one another, sending a charge of electric energy through Ian while leaving Mickey feel as if he was being pulled apart cell by cell.

“ _Whaaaaat the fuuuuuuck…”_ Mickey said, stumbling on the other side of Ian. He bent over and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. He held his hands in front of him to make sure he was still intact, then turned to see Ian doing the same. They were both just as shocked as the other.

“Did you feel that! You walked right through me! I could _feel_ you! Could you feel me!?” Ian exclaimed.

“I fuckin’ felt _something_. Holy shit, that was weird.”

“Do it again! Come here!” Ian took three steps towards Mickey, who stumbled backwards three giant leaps, holding his hands up to keep Ian at bay.

“NO! Whatever the fuck that was, I don’t want anymore of it! No fucking thank you!”

“But… Mickey – Didn’t you feel me? I felt you! I felt your heart beating and your lungs breathing! It was incredible! It was... so... “ He searched for a way to describe it, waiving his hands wildly, but there were none. “I felt … _alive_ again.”

Mickey backed up warily, keeping his eye on Ian to make sure he didn't come any closer. When his back hit the wall, he slid down onto the cardboard and grabbed the whiskey bottle, taking several drinks. 

“Yeah, well, I felt a little fucking _dead_. I’m not fucking drunk enough for this shit.” Before Ian could protest, Mickey was tapping out another bump. “I swear to fuck I better wake up in the morning hung over and find out this was all some crazy ass dream.”

Ian ran and sat beside him, a pleading look in his eyes. Mickey wouldn't even look at him. He shook his head _no_ and flipped Ian off, then took another nip at the bottle.

“Please Mickey. Please.”

“Please what, fuck head! What do you want me to do?”

Ian reached out, his palm up as if waiting for Mickey to take hold of it, but Mickey pulled his own away and stared at it wide eyed and silent. Ian didn't budge. They looked at each other, both with pleading eyes. Ian swallowed down his desperation, and Mickey swallowed down his fear, then slowly reached to take hold of Ian's hand.

As their bodies met, it was only a second before Ian’s transparent hand felt very solid and real inside of Mickey’s, and yet at the same time they floated right through one another. They stayed like that a few seconds, eyes coming up to meet again, both of them _feeling_ something extraordinary and surreal.

“I can feel you.” Ian whispered. He felt a euphoric rush to his brain from the coke Mickey had coursing through him, and the warmth of the whiskey in his belly.

Mickey gave a single nod. He could feel Ian too, only it wasn't bones and skin - it was loneliness melting away as a relief so desperate poured in, making Mickey want to cry. There was a well of other emotions behind those, but before they all came tumbling down, Ian pulled his hand away. The look of despair on Mickey's face had been too alarming.

“What are you doing?” Mickey said, a sense of loss hitting him as they disconnected.

“Are you ok?” Ian asked, concerned. 

“The fuck do you mean, am I ok? Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?” The deep emotional state he had been in quickly melted away and his defenses went up.

Ian just looked at him softly. There had been so much mourning, and sadness, and fear, and wanting in Mickey, and even Ian knew that those hadn't been his own. They belonged to Mickey and were a complete contradiction to the facade Mickey was putting on.

“I just meant… nothing.” Ian shook his head a little. “I was just making sure that didn’t hurt or anything.”

“Course it didn’t hurt.” Mickey wanted do it again. He wanted to make that connection to Ian again - to know his body, his mind, his heart - but Ian wouldn’t stop staring at him. “The fuck are you looking at, Gallagher? Cat got your tongue or something? If you got something to say, just fuckin' spit it out.”

“I was just thinking – what if the reason I can't leave this place is because I didn’t have a way to go? But now you’re here… so…” He waited, hoping Mickey would catch on.

“What you want me to give you a piggy back to your fucking body or something?” Mickey creased his brows like it was the craziest idea he could think of.

“Yeah… or something.” Ian replied.

Mickey stood up, waiving his hands and shaking his head, “Oh no! No fucking way! No way, Gallagher! You are not riding me like a fucking pony to the hospital! NO!”

“Come on, Mickey! It’ll be fun! What’s wrong with a little fun?”

“Fun for who? You? Fuck that. No means no!” He walked away shaking his head, mumbling about losing his fucking mind.

Ian stood up, and sadness washed over his face. Mickey was right – it was asking a lot, and after all, it wasn’t Mickey's fault that Ian was sort-of-almost-dead in a coma, right?

“Yeah. Ok.” Ian walked to the window. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

They stayed silent, neither knowing what to say. Ian understood Mickey’s reservation, but as the silence between them grew longer, all Mickey could think about was the fact that it could just as easily have been him up there the night after homecoming, banging one out for the team. That’s what boys did there, after all. That’s how Mickey knew about that place.

The fire in the trashcan was starting to die. Mickey tapped at it with his foot, thought about taking another drink, but instead he went to stand just inches behind Ian at the window. The aura of energy between them was like a magnet as their bodies yearned to touch again. It was impossible to ignore as they stood so close. 

“Fuuuck.” Mickey groaned, hoping he wouldn't regret his next step. 

He moved quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, and placed his right foot into the exact spot where Ian’s right foot stood, then stepped into Ian’s left foot as well. Their bodies melted into one another. Ian felt a jolt of electricity stronger than before, making him gasp as the drugs and alcohol hit his system. Mickey slowly felt himself being _pulled apart_ , making him want to scream. Only it wasn’t actually pulling apart that he felt, and it wasn't painful – when he finally surrendered to it, it felt more like Ian was _filling in_ all the missing parts; finding the empty spaces inside of him to fill up and make him whole.

“Oh shit!” Ian said. He tried to lift his arms, but now his body was tied to Mickey’s. He tried again with more effort, and this time he managed to raise an arm in front of his face – only it wasn’t his own arm he was seeing. Those were not his F U C K knuckle tattoos on the hand! 

“Oh my god, Mickey! I’m inside of you!” This time Ian tried raising Mickey’s other arm, but he could feel Mickey resisting. Ian yanked and the arm came up in front of him, reluctantly.

“Ok, all right, asshole! Enough of that shit! I’ll move my own fucking body the way I want, got it!” Mickey cried it, forcing both arms down to his side in a sudden move.

“Do you hear that? Mickey, do you hear that singing? What is that?” Ian tried to spin around to look for the source of the music, but Mickey’s body stayed solidly in place. “Is that… _Taylor Swift_?”

“Fuck you! I don’t fucking listen to Taylor fucking Swift, asshole. ‘it's just some stupid song that's been stuck in my fucking head all night. I don’t even know the words.” Mickey grumbled. 

“Yeah, I can tell," Ian chuckled. "You just keep singing the same line over and over… _I wanna be your endgame… endgame…_ ” Ian sang the lyrics stuck in Mickey's head.

“Fuck you. I’m out.” Mickey tried to step out of Ian’s body, but Ian stepped with him.

“No! Don’t go! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I won’t say anything about the music. But isn’t that weird that I can hear your thoughts?”

Hearing one another’s thoughts wasn’t the most surprising thing though – as the seconds ticked by, they both realized there were memories and feelings spinning like a Rolodex of randomness, popping up scenes or moments in their lives for each to see or feel. In just seconds, they were experiencing what had to be the equivalent of ‘having your life flashing before your eyes,’ only it wasn’t their own lives they were witnessing, but the others.

Neither of them moved. Mickey tried to stop his own thoughts but it was useless, because the second he would force one thought away, a dozen new things popped into their heads. Ian heard someone yelling “ _shoot the fucker in his god damn face!”_ which sent chills through him, all of it happening with Taylor fucking Swift singing somewhere in the background over and over _“I wanna be your endgame…”_

Giving up on shutting his own thoughts down, Mickey became lost in Ian's – a rush of relief and gratitude, flashes of little kids running through a house wrapped in toilet paper, and then the scene of the night Ian was thrown from the building began to play. Mickey heard his own old man’s voice followed by the Terry himself coming up the steps into the room. _“Grab him! Don’t let that faggot get away!”_ There was someone else there with Terry, but Mickey couldn't make out who it was, but they looked an awful lot like one of his own brothers. Ian's friend went running one direction, but Terry went after Ian, the hateful scowl now clear as day. The rest of the scene played out and Mickey felt his body break when Ian hit the ground, all of it with that damned Taylor fucking Swift song playing someplace in the background.

That voice. Terry's voice! They had both heard it! Simultaneously, Mickey took a giant step backwards and Ian took one stumbling step forward, pushing away from the other, desperate to disconnect. Ian turned on Mickey, his eyes wide and filled with tears. Mickey was staring back at him, speechless and ashamed.

“You were here! Jesus Christ, it was _you_!” Ian accused, pointing his finger and stepping farther away.

“No! No I wasn’t, I swear, it wasn’t me. I would…” 

Mickey wanted to say he would never do that. He wanted to say he _could_ never do what Terry had done, but the truth was he had done it before. When his old man began suspecting there was something _wrong_ with him, he started taking Mickey to go find boys fucking in alleys or abandoned buildings and serve up the punishment they deserved. The first time wasn’t good enough – not nearly enough blood to satisfy Terry, so the next time Mickey went full force, breaking bones and leaving one boy bloody and beat unconscious, while Terry took care of the other. He’d never had to go again after that, but Terry still looked at him with disgust. Mickey wanted to tell Ian all of that, but it was too late – Ian was already running for the stairs.

“Gallagher! Wait!” Mickey grabbed the backpack then went after Ian, taking the broken stairs as fast as he could in his drunken state. By the time he reached the bottom floor, Ian was nowhere to be seen.

“Gallagher!” Mickey spun in a circle, hands running through his hair as he searched the dark, but Ian was gone. Mickey sat down hard in the dirt.

“I would never do that to you.” He finally said to no one at all.

Ian ran. He only made it to the end of the lot before everything started going dark and his head started to swim. He felt as if he were going to pass out. He slowed his steps, but it was no use; a few seconds later everything went black. When he opened his eyes again he was lying in the snow ten feet away from where Mickey was sitting - the same exact spot he’d woken up in a month earlier, and dozens of times since.

“You’re back! How did you… ” Mickey exclaimed, pointing at the spot Ian had suddenly materialized in. 

Ian scuffled away, putting a bit more distance between them as Mickey came toward him.

“Ian, stop! Fuck, I can’t even fucking touch you if I wanted to. Ok ok! Fine. I’ll stand right here. Better?” He held his hands up in surrender. “It wasn’t me!”

“Then how did you know who that was? And how did you know I was in a coma?” Ian demanded.

Mickey thumbed at his lip, “It’s all over the fucking news. I swear, it wasn’t me… but I think it might have been my dad.”

Mickey took another step forward and Ian backed up again, so Mickey stepped back to show Ian he wasn't a threat

“Come on, man. What do I gotta do to prove it? Here, you wanna read my fuckin’ brain again or something? Come on. I’ll stand right here and prove it to you.”

Mickey held his arms open and closed his eyes, waiting for Ian. 

“Come on, I don’t got all ni…. _Oh shit_!” He felt the same filling sensation he had before as Ian jumped into his body and made the connection, only this time Mickey also felt that charge of electricity. “Fuck that’s … weird, right?”

Ian didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but Mickey said he could prove it and he wanted to believe him. At least this time that stupid song had stopped playing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mickey asked. He could feel Ian searching, like someone ransacking a house to find what they are looking for, but the only thing he was getting back from Ian was an overwhelming feeling of distrust. “Fuck… ok, fine. Just give me a sec, ok?”

Mickey stated ransacking his own memories trying to find something to convince Ian he was innocent. He decided it was better to let Ian _feel_ it for himself so there was no question as to whether or not Mickey was innocent. He looked around the lot to make sure they were alone, then reached down to his crotch.

“Say something.” Mickey said. Ian’s hand was firmly attached to his own when he began to stroke his dick through his jeans.

Stunned, Ian stuttered out, “Uhm… shit, wh-what d’you want me to say?”

Just the sound of Ian’s voice helped move things along, and they both felt the swelling under their hands.

“Holy fuck!” Ian exclaimed, making Mickey laugh out loud.

This time Ian forced Mickey’s hand, grabbing just a little tighter and getting a feel for what was under those jeans.

“Hey! Stop that!" Mickey jerked their hands away, "I was just trying to prove a fucking point? You fucking say shit about this and I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Kill me?” He stepped out of Mickey’s body, the disappointment of their lost connection felt by both. Ian looked down at the slight bulge in Mickey’s jeans then dared to glance back up at Mickey, who was chewing his lip nervously.

“Fuck you," Mickey grumbled. "Just … shut the fuck up about it.”

“Why did you tell me that?”

_Because it fucking felt GREAT to finally say it to someone._

_“_ Because you’re a fucking ghost, remember? No one else can hear you, so who the fuck are you gonna tell? Besides, I plan on being long gone from this shit hole soon anyway. Cops picked up my old man tonight. Some kind of undercover sting or some shit, so don't worry, he's getting what he fucking deserves for everything. Good fucking riddance to him.”

“Is that why you ran out here tonight? Are the cops looking for you?”

“Yeah, I was there, but I don't think they know that.” He nodded toward the pack on the ground, “I got that though – a shit load of cash. I’m getting the fuck out tomorrow when the train station opens.”

Mickey was ready for a change of subject now that he’d proven his point to Ian. He grabbed the backpack and started walking.

“Where will you go?” Ian walked quickly to catch up with him.

“I don’t know, guess I could go anywhere, start over.”

“You could go to Canada.” Ian suggested.

“Why the fuck would I go to Canada? All they got is moose and geese up there… and snow. Fuck that. If I wanna freeze my ass off, I’ll just stay here. Nah, I was thinking ‘bout going south, see the beach, drink some fucking margaritas with little paper umbrellas, you know? Ever been to Mexico? Wanna go? We could get a buy one, fly one free, since they can’t see you anyway.”

They were reaching the end of the lot, and Ian he could only go a few more steps before he would be thrown back into the dirt behind him.

“Sounds great. Only one problem.” 

He stopped walking, but Mickey continued. Another ten steps, and Mickey stopped as well, looking side to side, then behind him to see Ian standing there alone.

“The fuck are you doing? You coming or what?”

“I can’t. If I go any further I’ll just end up back there again.”

“Shit.” Mickey went back to Ian. “What if you get in me again? You think that’ll work?”

“I don’t know, but even if it does, what happens when I step back out again? I’ll just end up back there again.” Ian dropped his head and kicked at the dirt. “It’s ok. If you gotta go, I mean.”

“Nah, I’m not gonna just… you can’t just stay here alone.” Mickey said, remembering the loneliness he’d felt inside of Ian earlier, followed by the relief of being found again. “What if we try to put you back into your body? Yeah!" Mickey said excitedly, "Maybe that’s the reason you’re still in a coma, because you can’t get back there. It’s worth a shot.”

Ian perked up at the idea. It couldn’t hurt to try.

“But how will I get there?”

“Just… I’ll take you. Maybe it’ll work. We can at least try, and if it doesn’t work we’ll figure it out.” 

“Ok, but what are we gonna do when we get there? I mean do I just jump from your body to…”

“Listen, I don't fucking know! You gonna chit chat or d’you wanna get in me?” Mickey asked impatiently.

Ian smirked, entertaining what could have been a completely different offer.

“Fuck you, just hurry up. Let’s see if this works.” Mickey said, not missing the joke.

Ian stepped into him.

This time there was less pulling apart of the cells and less electricity, as if they were finding a balance between them now, each whole and filled with parts of the other. Ian waited for Mickey to move, but Mickey took a few seconds to relish the way Ian _comforted_ him. He didn’t even try to hide those thoughts or feelings – instead he just relaxed and took a deep breath, experiencing the wonder if it all.

“Mickey…?”

“Yeah yeah. Give me a sec.” He ran his hands through his hair and bit at his lip, resolving once and for all to try to help Ian. “All right. Let’s do this.”

They walked cautiously to the end of the lot. Ian held his breath as they cleared those last few steps, then went beyond the invisible barrier that had held him back. They were still connected.

“Fucking breathe, man! I feel like I’m under water. Knock that shit off.” Mickey griped, and Ian took a much needed deep breath. 

Mickey zipped his hoodie up as if it would be enough to hold Ian inside of him, and he stayed constantly alert to Ian's presence. They kept going, and by some miracle, they were still together at the end of another block. Mickey could feel Ian's excitement, and picked up the pace to get them moving faster. With nothing left distract him, that Taylor fucking Swift song made its way back into Mickey's head.

Ian began humming. Mickey scowled. Then Ian started singing the whole song, loudly.

 _“Big reputation, big reputation_   
_Ooh you and me we got big reputations, ah_   
_And you heard about me, ooh_   
_I got some big enem –“_

“The fuck are you doing? Stop that shit!”

“ _I wanna be your endgame… endgame…”_ Ian continued.

Mickey came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk and began shaking his whole body, flailing his arms out in front of him, spazzing out right there, shaking Ian up hard inside of him. 

“I SAID FUCKING STOP SINGING THAT FUCKING SONG!” He yelled, gaining the attention of a two people standing near the steps that led up to the L platform.

Ian stopped singing, but the song didn’t stop playing. _Fucker!_

“Just… shut the fuck up so I don’t look like a fucking loon on the train, ok?” Mickey insisted.

“Aye aye, cap’n”

“Asshole.” Mickey said to Ian as he passed a man looking his way and coming down the steps. “Not you, asshole!”

"You know, they can't hear me anyway, right?" Ian reminded him.

"I don't give a fuck. Shut up."

He found a spot as far from other people as he could and waited for the train to pull in. Ian took the opportunity to tune out the street around him and dove into the tiny little thoughts running through Mickey’s head.

“Who’s _Mandy_?”

“Get the fuck out of my head.” Mickey warned.

“Can’t. She’s pretty – sister or beard?”

“Fuck you, I don’t got a beard.”

“Wait… are you even… I mean, with your dad… and I just figured you weren’t out or anything like that.”

“The fuck do I need to be out for? So I can go fly some rainbow flag at one of those rallies they’re holding for you? No one needs to know my business, so drop it.”

Mickey pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head, and tucked his chin down as a group of men walked in his direction.

“But what about…”

“I said drop it, fuck head!” Mickey yelled, earning the attention of the men passing by.

_The fuck did he just say? Don’t know man, he’s prolly strung out on some shit. Or bat shit crazy. Hey asshole, what did you say?_

Ian could feel Mickey wanting to turn and face the men, Mickey’s hands forming into fists at his side. Ian put all his will into keeping Mickey facing in the opposite direction.

“Nope! No, Mickey… let’s go! Train’s here! Ignore them!” Ian pushed them forward, but Mickey resisted, making it look like he was struggling to walk a straight line away from the men.

“He called me fucking crazy!” Mickey growled, his legs continuing toward the opening doors of the train against his will.

“Yeah, well, you’re standing here talking to yourself in the middle of the night, looking pretty fucking crazy right now. Let's go!”

“Stop fucking moving my legs!” Mickey barked out, throwing his arms in the air since they were the only two appendages he still had control over. 

“See… you’re not really helping that ‘crazy’ image, Mickey. How about we do more walking and less flailing limbs and yelling?” Now all eyes of the late night commuters were on Mickey. People stepped away, giving him plenty of space to pass.

“Fucking fine! Let me fucking walk myself!”

He found a seat at the back of the car while Ian ran on and on asking questions Mickey didn’t have answers to – _Do you think my bones are broken? I mean, probably right, since I fell so far? What if I’m paralyzed? What if I can’t figure out how to get back into my body? What if…_ The questions continued but Mickey didn't answer any of them. He had already freaked out everyone in his train car, and didn't want to look crazy again. He didn’t have any answers, and it was better not to get Ian freaked out while they were sharing a body out in public.

The doors of the train were about to close when a last-second passenger come on board - a wrinkled up lady about 300 years old by Mickey’s estimate. The train began to move so she took the first seat she could get to, which just happened to be the seat directly in front of Mickey. She had barely even noticed him there as she set her bags down.

“You fuckin’ kidding me? She’s got this whole train but she has to sit there?” Mickey barked.

“MICKEY!” Ian yelled.

“What!? Bitch has forty seats to pick from but she chosed…” Mickey stopped short and caught his breath. His eyes opened wide when he looked down at his lap, “What the fuck are you doing, Gallagher?”

“Taking your mind off the old lady.”

“Get my hand – uh, get _your_ hand off my fucking dick!” Mickey caught the lady looking at him, “The fuck are _you_ looking at?” 

He forced their hands from his crotch, causing his whole arm to swing high up into the air, making Ian laugh out loud.

“Oh, you think that’s fucking funny, huh? I look like a fucking idiot, while you…” his other hand was now rubbing at his dick, “Motherfucker! That’s it! Get out! Get the fuck out of me!”

The old lady collected her belongings and made her way as quickly as she could to the far end of the train, keeping a suspicious eye on Mickey as she went.

“Jesus Christ, you happy now? She’s gone!” He smacked at his own hand on his crotch, “She’s gone, you can fucking stop now, dickhead!”

For a few seconds Ian stopped.

They both sat there silently, Mickey scowling out the window of the moving train, Ian smiling satisfied… and listening... and waiting. There… there it was. Mickey's regret for making him stop.

Ian moved their hands back down and gave Mickey another good long rub, making sure he felt it all the way down to his bones, then ran his hand along the inside of Mickey’s thigh before resting it on his leg. All the while Mickey just watched it happen, but didn’t complain again.

“You can’t be fucking doing that shit. Not on the train.” Mickey said quietly.

“What about off the train?” Ian asked, eliciting a chuckle from Mickey. “You ever… you know…” Ian created a picture in his head, hoping Mickey would pick it up – a picture of himself pushing into a bent over, unclothed Mickey.

They both felt the heat rise up Mickey’s neck and the blood rush into his dick. He bit at his lip nervously and took a deep breath in. Ian knew without Mickey saying it that the answer was No, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m usually the one....” Mickey conjured a picture of Ian bent over, and him in back.

“Shame.” Ian created another visual in his head, this time of Mickey on his back, with one leg bent up high over Ian’s shoulder, and Ian rocking steadily above him. “I like top.”

“Hey, fuck… I never said I wasn’t open to trying something new.” Mickey quickly added, and offered up the image of a box of toys stashed in his room.

“Holy shit, what is that? I rosary for giants?” Ian laughed, but he was quickly quieted as an image of Mickey on hands and knees came to mind. He had one hand behind him slowly pressing a well lubricated bead into his ass, the look of pure bliss on his face. 

“ _Fuuuuuck me_.” Ian whispered.

“I thought the point of this conversation was about fucking me?” Mickey offered, tucking his head down and grinning. He scrubbed his hands down his face and forced the visual from his mind, trying not to think of anything at all.

“Aaaw, come on, Mickey! I was enjoying that!” Ian grumbled.

Mickey looked down at the swelling in his pants and shook his head, “No, not now, asshole. We got two more stops, and I’m not getting off the train with wet fucking jeans or a woody. Shut the fuck up and think of something else. ANYTHING else.”

Ian was quiet for only a few seconds before he began to sing,

 _“You so dope, don't overdose_   
_I'm so stoked, I need a toast_   
_We do the most_   
_I'm in the Ghost like I'm whippin' a boat”_

“Are you fucking kidding me!? No! Stop singing!” He said loudly enough to get the old woman’s attention again. “How the fuck do you even know the words to this song?”

“I love Tay Tay! T-Swift, T-Swizzle, Swifty…  
 _Come to the A side_  
 _I got a bad boy persona that's what they like_  
 _You love it_  
 _I love it too 'cause you my type_  
 _You hold me down and I protect you with my life… ”_

Mickey jumped from his seat and started walking away, forgetting he couldn’t leave Ian behind.

“Whoa, where we going?" Ian said, clinging to Mickey's body. "You get too close to that old lady and she’s gonna mace us, and I really don’t want to share that pain with you Mickey… sit down!”

“Stop singing that fucking song!” Mickey growled.

This time the old lady let out a startled cry. Mickey realized he had closed half the distance between her and him, and she was trapped. Any second now she was going to shoot him, mace him, shiv him, or die of a heart attack. Thank fucking god their stop was next. He walked to the double doors and waited, putting his back to the old lady so that maybe she would calm down knowing he was leaving.

All the while Ian was chuckling, finding the whole situation funnier than it was – after all, he wasn’t the one who looked like a complete fucking lunatic.

“Ok, I’ll stop. What else should I sing? Do you like Rhianna?”

“NO.”

“Ciara? Selena Gomez? Dua Lip…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, do you listen to ANY good music?”

Ian laughed and did a mental inventory of any music he could find in Mickey’s random Rolodex, “What about this one?”

He began doing his best impression of the opening notes for a Pearl Jam song, which made Mickey laugh when he recognized the tune.

 _“On a da da_  
 _la dee dada daaa_  
 _I wanna leave it again_  
 _la dee dada ladee_  
 _Laaa dee daaada-”_  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t know all the words. No one actually knows the words to this song, including them I think.”

“So now I gotta suffer to you singing _la dee fucking da_ out of tune? No. New song. Wait, no! Better yet, just shut the fuck up.” 

The doors of the train opened and Mickey jumped out and went for the stairs in double time, missing the gawking old lady in the train window watching him as he went. Mickey headed for the hospital, taking extra care to stay off the main road with all the emergency vehicles going by. He was certain no one had seen him at the drop sight with Terry earlier, but he wasn’t taking any chances either. He reached into his pocket and felt the mask he’d been wearing earlier.

“What is that?’ Ian said, trying to figure out what their fingers were touching.

Mickey pulled it out and held it in front of him. 

“Halloween mask. I need to dump it, in case someone saw it.” He bunched it into his hand planning to toss it in the next dumpster they passed.

“Wait, is that the Joker!? I love the Joker! Please don’t throw it! When we get to the hospital you can leave it there.” Mickey was already shaking his head no, “Mickey, come on! Ever since I was a little kid I wanted to be the Joker for Halloween, but all I ever got was Lip’s hand-me-down shit, and sometimes not even that! Come on – give a dying guy his one Make-A-Wish, please!”

Mickey held the mask up once more time, “The Joker? Seriously? Why the fuck would you want to be the Joker when you could be the Dark Knight, or better yet, Superman?”

“The Joker is ten times better – Come on, Mickey! Heath Ledger? How can you not love him?”

Mickey rolled the mask and put it back in his pocket. “Fine, you can keep the fucking mask, but if I end getting pegged for any shit, you’d better wake up from your fucking coma and be my alibi, got it?”

They rounded the corner onto the hospital grounds and headed for the emergency room entrance. Mickey stopped behind a bush near the ambulance bay and opened up his backpack. The magazine clip had to go. The whiskey had been left behind already, so all that was really left was drugs and money. He tapped out a last bump of coke and sniffed before Ian knew what was happening, the rush coursing through both of them like a bolt of lightning. He took the rest of it and tossed it under the bush. If he was lucky and it would still be there later, but there was no way he was getting past security with that on him.

“Jesus, how much money is that?” Ian asked.

“A lot.” 

The number ran through both their thoughts. “What the hell are you doing with all that money, Mickey?”

“Gettin’ the fuck out of Dodge, if things go right. You ready to go?” Mickey asked, eyeing the security guard through the door.

“Sure. Where we going?” 

“Inside, dumb ass. I’m talking about going inside, not leaving town.” Mickey sensed Ian’s disappointment and quickly added, “Why? You wanna go with me?”

He started for the door and waited for Ian to answer, but what he got instead was the image of them sitting on a beach watching the waves come in.

“You’re gonna need a shit load of sunscreen, Gallagher. Your ass’ll burn like a motherfucker in that sun.”

Ian’s disappointment faded and his own smile spread across Mickey’s face.

“I’ll do your back if you’ll do mine.” Ian said.

“Ok, don’t get all fucking gay and shit over this. First we have to figure out how to get you back into your own ass and out of mine.”

“Where’s the fun in that, Mick?” Ian joked.

Getting past security was no problem at all – a little faked flu bug and some retching, and the guard was pointing out the nearest bathroom just beyond the ER doors – down the hall past the elevators.

“How are we gonna find me?” Ian asked. “Maybe we should start in ICU. I mean, coma patients go to ICU, right?”

They snuck past the elevators and took the stairs, peeking through the door at each floor for signs of ICU. On the fifth floor, just as Mickey was about to close the door and continue up, Ian stopped him.

“Wait! Do you hear that?” Mickey tucked his head back into the doorway to listen, then shook his head. “That’s – my brother! I’m must be on this floor!”

“You sure? This isn’t even ICU.”

“I’m sure that’s my brother’s voice I hear. Just go! Let’s at least find him.”

They slid down the hall without any problem. The only staff on duty that late in the evening was either busy on rounds or grabbing a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. Mickey followed the sound of Lip’s voice into a small waiting room. He tried to peek in and duck out again without being seen, but as luck had it, Lip was standing right at the door tucking his phone back into his pocket. Mickey gave him a quick awkward smile, then turned to leave, but it was too late – he’d been busted.

“Hey! Hey wait a minute. Mickey… right? I’m Lip – Lip Gallagher? We went to school together.”

Mickey rolled his eyes as he turned back toward Lip. “Yeah, that’s me. The fuck are you doing here this late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Lip said. When Mickey didn’t look amused, Lip continued, “My brother, Ian. He’s, uh… they have him drugged up pretty good. I usually try to get by a little earlier, but life, you know? First chance I got all day.”

“Ask him about me!” Ian begged. “Ask him what’s wrong with me and why I’m not awake! Ask him if my body is all fucked up? Ask him what…”

“Can you just shut the fuck up for a minute!” Mickey turned his head and whispered a bit too loudly.

“D’you say something?” Lip asked confused.

“No… nothing. Just a sneeze.” 

“ASK HIM!” Ian practically yelled inside of Mickey.

“So, what’s going on with your brother? He get an operation or something?”

“A few actually. Some guys jumped him, left him for dead, but he’s a fighter, you know. Docs thought he might be paralyzed, but aside from just being really tired, he seems to have come out of it pretty well… at least physically, you know?”

“What’s that mean, ‘aside from being tired?’” Mickey asked.

“He doesn’t wanna wake up. He came to a few times, but went right back out again. Docs think maybe it’s like a defense mechanism against stress or pain – but they’re giving him some good meds, so hopefully he’ll come around soon. Few broken bones to heal up after that and he’ll be good as new.”

Ian was blabbering away in Mickey’s head at a hundred miles an hour, but Mickey had his own questions.

“They catch the guy who did it?” He asked.

“Nah. Doubt they will. My brother was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t think it was personal.” Lip looked at the clock on the wall, “Hey listen, I gotta run. If you ever get any good weed, hook me up. I’m still over on Wallace.”

He held a fist out waiting for a bump but Mickey just looked at it without reciprocating.

“Yeah, ok. See ya ‘round.” Lip said at last, dropping his fist.

Mickey felt Ian trying to turn to watch his brother leave, and against his better judgment, he turned his body so Ian could do just that. A rush of sadness went through both of them and Mickey eyes welled with tears. He nudged at his nose and bit back the tears before pinching his eyelids, but Ian's sadness held on.

“Ok. Now what?” Mickey said, taking a seat in the empty waiting room.

“I guess now we try to find the room, and see if maybe I can slip into my body there the same way I slipped into yours.”

“You know if that doesn’t work, you’re probably gonna end up right back in the dirt where I found you the last time, right? I mean, the only reason we got this far is because I carried you here. What if you get pulled back there before you have a chance to reconnect with your body?”

“I don’t have answers, Mickey. But I can’t ride you all night either, can I?”

Mickey coughed back a laugh, but didn’t answer – _That wouldn’t be the worst fucking thing in the world_.

Mickey shook his head, trying to push back the thought. This sharing brains business was getting old and starting to piss him off – he couldn’t hide anything from Ian like this. The grin that spread across his lips wasn't his own.

“Let’s go find your body.”

It was simple – first hall on the right, four doors down. Mickey slid the door closed quietly, then pulled the curtain around the bed to give them even more privacy in case anyone should pass by. Mickey stood there dumbfounded looking at the man he'd had been toting around, now lying in front of him.

“Good news is most of the bruises and cuts on your face seem to be healing up pretty well.”

That should have been good news, but the rest of his body was a wreck. Ian’s right leg was cast from foot to hip and his left also had a cast on the bottom half. There was also one arm in a cast, a neck brace, and his ribs were wrapped up too. He pushed Mickey closer, running their hand up along the long leg cast, then ending at the one good arm lying on the bed. It wasn't broken, but it was badly bruised from the IV needles it had taken.

Mickey lifted the lifeless hand in his own, surprising Ian, and held it in between both of his own, running his thumb gently along the fingers. He might have been comforting Ian or himself.

“Can you feel me?” he asked. He closed his eyes and tried to will Ian to feel his hands. Ian watched, astonished such a gentle touch, but he couldn’t feel it physically the way he should have. He shook his head. 

“It’s ok. We’ll figure it out.” Mickey set Ian's hand back on the bed carefully, running a finger across the knuckles. “Looks like you put up a good fight. My old man’s a fuckin’ demon. I hope you got him good.”

A feeling of despair fell over them.

“What? What’s wrong? Ian, what’s going on?”

“What if I didn’t? You know, put up a fight?”

“You got beat and pushed out of a fucking building, and you’re not dead yet. I think that’s a pretty goddamn good sign of putting up a fight, don’t you?”

“Maybe… but…”

“Fuck, Gallagher. I’m too fucking tired to go chasing your thoughts right now, and not nearly high enough anymore for this shit. Just spit it out.”

“I got in a fight with Frank the day it all happened. Lip had left the paternity tests from the lab in a kitchen drawer, and when Frank saw them he did what he always does and began to just … fucking… _pick_ at me… dig after dig after dig until I finally snapped and punched him! I punched him over and over, until Fiona pulled me off.”

Ian looked at his broken body again, “But I don’t remember even fighting back against the your dad or the other guy who attacked me that night. I just remember wishing they would finish it. End it all for me. I think I let them do this to me.”

The idea of Ian wanting to die hit them both. Mickey took a deep breath, and shook the thought away, then fell into the green vinyl hospital chair.

“Nah, man, I’m not buying it. You said you were there partying with a friend after homecoming, and now you’re saying maybe you wanted to die? Can’t be right.”

Mickey laid his head back and closed his eyes. Exhaustion was setting in, but they still needed to figure out how to get Ian back to his own body.

“It was more than just Frank. Everyone in the house was all fired up already about my mom being there. She has, uhm… a mental issues, and she’d been at the house for a week stressing everyone out, then on top of that I found out I wasn’t going to qualify for West Point. When I went to the game, I was just looking to get high and forget all that shit, you know? I was just so sick of all of it. So when your dad showed up… I think I just didn't care anymore if I died.”

Mickey’s hands flew to his face and covered his eyes as Ian began to sob. There was nothing Mickey could do to stop it. He folded forward, his elbows on knees, and began to cry. The loneliness and failure and despair Ian had pushed away for so long was coming out now that he realized that he had actually wanted to die that night.

Mickey sat back in the chair with his eyes still closed tight and wrapped his arms around himself in a hug. The tears that fell belonged to both of them. Ian's pain was familiar, because he had been living the same way for longer than he would admit.

“Mick…” Ian said quietly.

Mickey wiped tears from his eyes with one hand as he continued to hold himself with the other. “hmmm?”

“Did you just give me a hug?”

He felt Ian smile.

“Fuck off.” This time he used both hands and pressed away the last of the tears and cleared his throat. “So what the fuck are we gonna do with you now if you don’t wanna be Ian Gallagher anymore?”

He walked over to the bed to get a good look at Ian.

“My old man has spent the better part of his life reminding me what a piece of shit I am. Fuckin’ beat me almost as bad as you… more than once. And for the same reason.” Mickey reached out and touched Ian’s red hair, now grown out with curls framing his face. “But he can’t hurt me anymore. He’s fucking gone, and even if he’s not, I’ll be gone before he finds me again.”

The question sat there unasked between them, but Ian could practically hear the words, or at the very least feel Mickey wanting to say them. _Do you want to live, Ian?_

“I think you gotta want to live, or you’re never going to get back into this body. And as bodies go, this one isn’t half bad.” Things were getting way too heavy for Mickey’s liking. “I got an idea!”

He ran to the door and peeked out, making sure there were no doctors or nurses coming their way, then went back to the bed.

“I’m gonna crawl on top of you, and you try to just … I dunno… like fall into your own body, got it?”

“No, I don’t _got it_! You can’t get on top me! Look at all those casts! That’s gonna fucking hurt!”

“No it won’t! You got fucking morphine running through your veins man. You probably won’t even feel it. ‘Sides, if it does wake you up, then mission accomplished, right?”

Before Ian could argue, Mickey was maneuvering himself onto the bed, carefully trying to find a way to lay his own body along the top of Ian’s. Ian immediately began to protest.

“No! No, bad idea! I don’t want to do this!” He kicked Mickey’s left foot off the bed, causing Mickey to kick Ian’s leg with a half cast off the bed.

“What the fuck, Ian! I got it! Stop doing that shit before you knock us both on the fucking floor!”

This time Ian pulled Mickey off balance by knocking an arm out from under him. Mickey landed square on top of Ian’s chest, coming forehead to forehead with Ian’s body.

“Ouch! FUCK!” Mickey grunted, doing his best not to yell too loudly. “I swear to fucking god, if you don’t knock your shit off I’ll fucking kick your ass myself.”

“Oh, sure, tough guy. I’d love to see that happen.”

Mickey took advantage of the position he was in and wrapped each of his legs firmly along the sides of Ian’s, straddling him as they lay chest to chest and face to face.

“Fuck you, I’m not moving until you at least try.” Mickey insisted.

Ian tried to move him, but it was no use. Mickey was fully aware of his efforts, fighting against every push he made.

“Fine! But what happens if this doesn’t work?” Ian argued.

“Just fucking do it so I can get off this fucking bed!”

Mickey felt the struggle inside of him subside as Ian gave in to the idea of at least trying. A deep breath, a few seconds longer, then the sensation of Ian starting to disconnect from Mickey’s body began. It felt like the first time they had run into each other back at the abandoned building – a slow motion of passing through one another, only this time in reverse as Ian pushed away from Mickey’s body. It was only a few seconds at most, but Mickey began to feel light headed as blackness tried to creep in, and he panicked.

“Wait! Stop! Ian don’t move!” The darkness didn’t subside, and Ian didn’t move… not another inch out or back into Mickey. “Something’s not right, I can feel it.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s like when I black out before ending up back in the lot again.” Ian forced himself to reconnect with Mickey once again, and a sigh of relief escaped both of them.

“I don’t get it. I mean, you’re right here. All you gotta do is jump back in, right? Why isn’t this fucking working?” Mickey questioned.

They lay there listening to the beeping of the machines, Mickey’s forehead resting against the side of Ian’s face. 

“You know, maybe if you get your ass back in your body, we could try this position again, without all this creepy body invasion shit going on?” Mickey said lightly making Ian chuckle. “Yo… I don’t think you got any underwear on underneath that gown.” Mickey added.

He reached down to the edge of the gown and slid his hand up.

“You gotta be kidding me! You aren’t gonna touch my junk when I’m half dead are you?”

“You’ve felt pretty fucking lively all night to me asshole, especially when you had your hand on my dick, remember? I just wanna know what I’m working with here. I’m not gonna fucking molest you. What d’you think I’m some fucking perv?” 

Mickey slid from Ian’s body carefully, back onto the floor, and lifted the hospital gown just enough to peek under. He let out an impressive whistle.

“Holy fuck, Gallagher…” He dropped the gown back down and looked back at Ian’s sleeping face, “You need to wake up so we can take that thing for a ride and see if it still works! I’ll tell you what, that dick alone is worth living for, so let’s figure this the fuck out.”

They were both laughing now. It felt good to laugh like that. Light. Genuine. Mickey tucked the thin hospital blanket over Ian, taking him in one last time. Carrot top – who would have ever thought he’d be into carrot tops?

“It’s the Irish in me.”

“Get the fuck out of my head.” 

Mickey pulled the vinyl chair closer to the bed and took a seat next to Ian’s body. They sat like that, not speaking, but listening to small thoughts that flashed through the other’s minds. It was a silent conversation of all the things they wanted to say, but in the real world, in a real situation, they knew neither of them would ever say out loud. Ian visualized that day on the bleacher years before when he’d watched Mickey with puppy eyes, and Mickey chuckled and shook it away. Mickey thought of the possibilities – if Ian’s body wasn’t lying in that bed, and Ian watched with regret wishing they could make them all happen. 

Mickey leaned forward onto the bed, lying his head next to Ian’s hand, and closed his eyes. He felt sleep fighting to take over now, but before it won, he reached out and took Ian’s hand in his own. The last thought he had before falling asleep was Ian, lying on top of him, nose to nose, not saying a word.

***

  
The morning shift had started, and the hospital floor was lively once more. Mickey slowly began to wake as he heard nurses passing through the halls making their rounds. He lifted his pounding head, eyes still closed, and tried to orient himself to the surroundings. Had he been so high last night he’d imagined the entire thing? He opened his eyes and saw he was still holding the hand he’d fallen asleep holding just hours earlier, and the lifeless body of Ian Gallagher was still there, like Sleeping Beauty waiting on his prince to come save his ass.

“Ian. _Ian!_ You there?” He whispered.

Ian didn’t answer. Mickey closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to feel their connection. He listened for Ian's thoughts and searched for any sensation, but nothing came. Ian had disconnected from him. Mickey took Ian’s hand again, willing Ian to talk to him.

“Ian, come on man. Stop fucking around. Wake up! Train station is open. We gotta go.”

The privacy curtain around the bed flew open, and a slightly pinched face nurse stood there looking not to pleased to see him. 

“I don’t think he’s gonna wake up any time soon.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “Visiting hours don’t start for another 45 minutes.”

“Sorry. I, uh… I didn’t mean…” He gave one last hopeful squeeze before letting go of Ian’s hand.

“It’s ok. I won’t tell.” The nurse said, her face softening a bit. She took a quick look at the drip hanging by the bed, then added, “I have to run and grab another one of these. Why don’t you take a minute with him. Then maybe you can go grab some coffee and come back when visiting hours begin, ok?”

She pulled the privacy curtain closed once more and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mickey fell back into the chair and ran his hands through his messy hair, pushing it back into place.

Ian was gone. Maybe he hadn’t been able to hold onto Mickey’s body after Mickey fell asleep. If that were the case, he was probably back at the lot, waiting for Mickey to come find him. The thought sparked some hope in Mickey, now determined to go back to find him if necessary.

But what then? They couldn’t keep playing this game day after day. Mickey could drag him back to this hospital room every day, but if Ian wasn’t ready to live, then each night when Mickey fell asleep again they’d be right back to square one in the morning.

“Fuck.” He scrubbed his hands down his face feeling defeated. It wasn't his job to save Ian. Ian would have to find a way to save himself. He took another long look at Ian. “I wish… Fuck Ian, I don’t know. I fucking wish our lives had been different, you know? Maybe that neither one of us had shit dads to ruin us before we had a fucking chance.”

He ran his finger across Ian’s wrist, “I wish we could just start over... from right now, you know? I got the cash, man. All I need you to do is wake the fuck up, and I’ll take you anyplace you wanna go. We’ll get the fuck away from here and start over.”

The only response was the constant beep of the machines.

Mickey leaned in close, putting his lips up to Ian’s ear and whispered, “What the fuck did you do to me, Gallagher? I can still feel you, you little shit. You’re under my skin.” His lips rested on Ian’s cheek a moment, unmoving. “Wake the fuck up, Ian.

“Ok.” He pulled himself up and flipped Ian off. “Fuck it. I’m gonna go back to that lot to find your ass, and we’ll try this one more fucking time, but then that’s it, got it? I ain’t doing this shit every fucking day – probably end up in a fucking loony bin if we keep this up, asshole. You better have fucking coffee waiting for me when I get there, shit head.”

He pulled the Joker mask from his pocket and laid it across Ian’s belly, then gave him a middle finger before heading for the door. He didn’t look back. There was no point – he was on his way to find the fucking ghost and bring him right back here again before the day was over, and against his better judgment, Mickey knew he would repeat the process as many times as necessary until they accomplished what they had started out to finish. He made it halfway down the hall when an alarming beep and a commotion at the nurse’s desk caught his attention. 

“It’s room 524. Get the doctor here stat!” One nurse called, as the others all went running for Ian’s room.

Mickey watched, unsure if Ian had been in room 524 or 542, but his heart raced when he saw everyone converging at the door he’d just left behind him. A woman wearing a long white coat came rushing down the hall, pulling her stethoscope from around her neck as she entered the room. Mickey was only a few steps behind her, but when he got to the door a nurse pushed him out again.

“I’m sorry, sir! You can’t be in here right now! The doctor's here. She’ll handle this.” She tried to push him out the door as he fought to move past her.

“Ian! _Ian!”_ Mickey called out, trying to see around the nurse.

“Someone turn that beeping off, please!” It was the woman in the white coat, the doctor, making her way to Ian behind the curtain.

Mickey put his hands up in surrender to the nurse.

“I’ll stay right here, I swear, but I’m not fucking leaving.” He said, taking one step toward the door to show her he was a man of his word.

“Ian, can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Can you try to squeeze my fingers?” The doctor was asking.

Mickey listened, waiting for any sign to tell him Ian was actually awake and ok.

“Ok ok! I need you to stay calm! Just try to relax, ok?”

Mickey took a step toward the curtain, watching shadows of the doctors and nurses struggling to keep Ian still, but a nurse stepped in front of him and pointed to the door, reminding him of the deal she’d made with him to stay put.

“It’s, ok, Ian. You’re safe. You’re in a hospital. Do you remember anything that happened to you?” The doctor asked.

More silence. The doctor rattled off a few orders sending one nurse out the door, then walked around the foot of the bed to the other side, allowing Mickey a quick glimpse before she disappeared again.

“Ian, Nurse Griffin went to go call your family, ok? Just try to relax…. What dear? I couldn’t hear you? Can you say that again?”

This time Ian’s voice was just a bit louder, still barely a whisper, but Mickey heard him when he asked,

“Where’s Mickey?”


End file.
